‘Refusal is not an option.’ August takes off for her own house, yelling over her shoulder, ‘You owe me!’
He does.
But what are they going to do at that playground? Hang out? He’s sure that’s where the drug dealers make their drops.
How does he ask permission?
If the Maestro is home in the afternoon …
But she’s not. At midday, she leaves for the bus to do some jobs in town – probably eating out too, since there’s no food in the house and she never seems to go hungry like he and Joey have to. She commands Beck to practise hard, with the “or else” lingering in the air before she goes.
It makes Beck angry.
Angry enough to defy her?
He could take Joey, walk out that door – walk for ever if he wanted to. Just walk and walk and forget about Germany, about the études, about his uncle he’s never met and who will probably be even worse than his mother.
He slams the piano lid shut. ‘Joey! We’re going to the playground.’
Joey appears, still in pyjamas, with two bald Barbies. ‘Really?’
‘But you have to swear not to tell the Maestro,’ he says.
‘Like a secret?’
‘Exactly like a secret.’
Joey’s eyes shine. ‘I love you, Beck!’ She dashes off and returns in a glittery tutu over jeans and a paper crown, her hair sticking out in puffs like a mad scientist.
Beck zips on an orange striped jacket that’s too tight, too short, but at least still clean and warm, and they burst out of the house into the crisp autumn afternoon.
When did he get so brave?
It’s not because of August. It’s because – because – of –
August. Whatever.
At the park, which hasn’t been mowed in thirty years, Beck does a quick circumnavigation to ensure the shadiest of occupants are far away and look stoned and not ready to pull knives, and then he releases Joey into the wild. She shrieks and heads straight for the monkey bars.
Beck perches on a swing and waits.
And waits.
If she doesn’t show up, that’s a good thing, right? They’ll forget about this ‘debt’. She plays it tough, but she’s still doing him favours. Giving him cake, inviting him places, lending him her iPod, hanging out with him when she has no need.
Joey is upside down on the monkey bars, clutching her paper crown. ‘I’M THE PRINCESS OF THE WORLD.’
Beck is glad she can’t read the crude graffiti.
At least he came, right? He left the house. He did something against the Maestro. He deserves a trophy for this, or congratulatory cake. But more so the latter. He’s starving.
‘Oh, look!’ Joey squalls, now on top of the playground tower, above the no climbing sign. ‘Your girlfriend is coming!’
Beck’s heart gives a stuttering leap before he remembers to glare at Joey like he’s furious at the word girlfriend. Is he?
Is he?
August flies into the playground with a dazzling smile, like the knee-high grass and weeds aren’t inconvenient, like she’s entering the most beautiful place on earth. She holds a plastic box above her head, which promises something chocolatey. With weekend clothing freedom, she looks like a different person. She has rust-coloured shorts and a baggy crocheted jumper the colour of a Mediterranean salad. Her hair is knotted into a bandana and her bare feet – how unsurprising – are adorned with dozens of clinking metallic anklets.
‘You made it!’ she says. Like she’s not the late one.
She slows down, panting, and flops into the other free swing, the box on her lap. Her grin is intoxicating.
‘You’re going to love these, they’re all gooey and …’ August pops the lid off and frowns. ‘OK, I swear they looked nice before I started running.’
The cupcakes are one giant smoosh of chocolate and purple paper wrappers. August breaks off a piece and pops it in her mouth.
‘They still taste good.’ She shrugs and holds the box out to him.
It’s polite to eat what food you’re offered, right? Not because he’s downright starving. They taste – weird. Like chocolate and – mud? But every second bite is an explosion of pure melted chocolate. And oh it’s so good.
Joey appears at August’s elbow. ‘Are those for me?’
‘Absolutely.’
Joey takes two and runs off again. She’s halfway up the playground before she bites one and yells, ‘YUCK.’ And then keeps eating.
Beck winces. ‘Sorry, she’s—’
‘Honest.’ August’s eyes have a wicked shine. ‘There’s beetroot in them.’
What.
‘But the flavour grows on you, right?’ August takes another bite and holds the box back out to him. A dare.
But food. He takes another misshapen cake and bites half in one go.
Joey’s back at the top of the playground and demanding to be admired, so August bounces over and bubbles with dramatic praise. Joey’s grin is so wide her face is in danger of splitting. How does August do that? How does she make people feel special?
It’s bittersweet, actually. It reminds Beck he’s not special. He hates himself for being like that but some of the brightness drifts out of the day.
When August returns, he twists the swing in circles and avoids eye contact.
‘So,’ August says, ‘I had an idea of how you could repay me.’
‘Did you know cake isn’t supposed to have vegetables in it?’
‘Oh shut up. Come over for dinner.’
She doesn’t have reason to be this nice any more. Their project is done.
‘You like me so much you want to eat me?’ Beck says.
August rolls her eyes. ‘Come and eat dinner with me and my family. Satisfied with my wording, Mister Technical?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You say that for everything, and yet –’ August spreads her arms wide and nearly falls out of her swing ‘– here you are. I think you can be convinced.’
Why can’t he just tell her? She wouldn’t blab to the school. But she might look at him pityingly and – no. He’s—
Embarrassed. Of his life, of the Maestro, of his weakness. He can’t tell.
‘Not this time,’ Beck says. ‘My mum is … really strict.’
‘It doesn’t have to be a school night.’ August twists on the swing and spins around with a shriek. ‘We’ll make sure you eat your vegetables. I’ll even walk you safely home so the bad guys don’t get you.’
‘Comforting,’ he says. ‘But I can’t.’
Maybe this will be enough to make her lose interest. There’s probably some other pathetic kid who needs cheering up and prodding into greatness. Although one A-scored paper probably doesn’t equal greatness. The thought is there, anyway.
‘I’M STUCK!’ Joey screeches.
Beck flips out of the swing and starts toward her, but she shakes her head so madly her paper crown slips over her eyes.
‘No, I want August!’
Oh.
Beck is left to the swings while August directs Joey down and then demonstrates the monkey bars – which she’s too tall for and Joey too short. Beck feels a little replaced. But at least he has an excuse to watch them – well, watch August – and not be weird.
OK, it’s still weird.
The dusky afternoon light is like a halo of gold around her. She deserves the halo. She’s that good, too freaking good. Even when Joey stomps in a puddle and splashes mud over August’s legs, she just laughs.
Good things don’t last.
They walk home, each holding one of Joey’s hands and swinging her over the footpath cracks. It gets dark so fast this time of year, but not dark enough that they miss seeing that half the road is covered in pears.
There’s a truck with a busted axle on the side of the road, and two guys arguing.
Joey breaks free of their hands and runs to the gutter. She plucks a fat pear and spins to Beck. ‘Can I eat it? Can I?’
It’s like a sea of pears – squished and bruised, green and brown.
Beck hesitates, so she just bites down, grinning through the juice.
‘Hey kids,’ one of the truck guys calls, ‘if you want those pears, take ’em.’
‘Um, thanks,’ Beck says.
Joey piles pears into her tutu. ‘I want to eat them all, Beck.’
August squats and plucks a few bruised ones. Half are practically pear jam where a car has driven over them.